


Part Two (E/R): The Betrayal

by squishgurl



Series: Doomed Revolutionaries [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:57:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squishgurl/pseuds/squishgurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The consequences of sending Grantaire away are decidedly different to what Enjolras ever could have imagined. Part Two of the Doomed Revolutionaries series</p><p>“It will do you no good to indulge too deeply in that.” He whispered into his ear wisely, indicated to the bottle now sitting back on the table. “Retire for the night Enjolras. Dwell upon such things in darkness and privacy as all of us great thinkers must. Leave them to their revelry and pray that it is short lived.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part Two (E/R): The Betrayal

When he first heard Courfeyrac brag, he thought the whole thing was a joke. But after the way Grantaire avoided his eyes, and Courfeyrac couldn't meet them enough, he began to take the teasing a little more seriously. Finally, later that night, he sidled up to Combeferre, his closest friend and confidant, and asked the question. To say he hadn't liked the answer would have been the biggest understatement of the century. His rage was that of one thousand white-hot burning suns and Combeferre tentatively took the fork from within his clenched palm.

Courfeyrac was sleeping with Grantaire. Grantaire was sleeping with Courfeyrac. They were sleeping together. He tried to act nonchalant; asking questions calmly, with what he thought was convincing curiousity. But Combeferre would have none of it, the drama between the tight knit group had never interested him and this was no exception. He left the public house very soon after, taking the fork with him.

The next stop when a drama such as this broke would have been Courfeyrac, but as it was Enjolras couldn't look at him without wanting to punch him in his smug face. So he went to Jean Prouvaire. Sweet, innocent, unobtrusive Jehan. He didn't say much, when he did people barely heard him, so he was the perfect spy. He was uncannily observant, an excellent trait in a poet and writer. 

He looked surprised at Enjolras' approach, the two never had much to say to one another. But he didn't object as their leader sat down beside him, seriously contemplating the bottle of wine sitting on the table. Deciding against it, he turned to Jean Prouvaire curiously. His mouth opened but the words would not come. So he closed it again, smiling awkwardly as Jehan raised an eyebrow.

“Enjolras. To what do I owe this pleasure?” He asked politely, though behind his eyes it was obvious he knew. Somehow Jean Prouvaire knew everything.

“Am I really so untouchable that just by sitting with you it causes a stir?” Jehan shrugged.

“I hardly think we are the cause of the stir in our faction tonight.” He remarked casually, his bright face watching Enjolras’ expression closely. Enjolras discovered within himself a new respect for Jean Prouvaire. As quiet as he was, he was also crafty; intelligent. It was no wonder Combeferre was so enraptured with the young poet. They were of like minds; philosophers, intellectuals. It was a mating of the souls and of that, Enjolras had always been envious.

He turned, looking at everyone and no one; at Courfeyrac, who was blistered with drink and beaming at Grantaire, who smiled back shyly. It felt to Enjolras like he would cry. Or heave. Or both.

"Hardly a strange pairing." Jehan said casually, his face still watching Enjolras'. "They have more in common than not." Enjolras nodded absently, listening with only one ear as Courfeyrac unceremoniously collapsed on to Grantaire's lap, leaning up and kissing him deeply as their friends looked on and cheered. Enjolras' hand clenched, his white knuckles visible even from Jehan's side of the table. The younger man said nothing of it, for which Enjolras was grateful. "I had thought his attentions were directed more towards another though..." He let the comment hang and Enjolras looked away, the terrible image of his two friends kissing burnt into his eyelids whenever he blinked. His gaze fell upon the abandoned wine again, and for the first time since his first time, after which he was ill for days, he considered Grantaire's solution to grief and despair. Jehan's watched him quietly, simply observing their ordinarily fearless leader.

He unclenched his hand purposely, surprised and not that his nails had littered his palm with tiny red half moons, and reached out to caress the cool bottle. It was almost full; in a room with both Grantaire and Courfeyrac that should be an impossibility. He glanced at Jean Prouvaire who raised both hands dismissively.

"You are welcome to it. I must retire." He stood from the table, even that he did silently, placing a hand supportively on Enjolras's shoulder as the leader took his first drink. The wine was warm but somehow that improved it, the spices mingling together with the help of the heat. It was not unpleasant, perhaps a little strong for Enjolras' palette but he understood the appeal of the drink. Already his mind was becoming heavy, and a dull numbness had begun to spread through his extremities. This was what he wanted, no needed, detachment. A respite from the pain that had plagued him since that day; only two days ago yet it felt like a lifetime. He needed to rest, he was tired and it was beginning to show. The shadows beneath his eyes betrayed both lack of sleep and indulgence in tears.

Jehan leant down, pecking a light kiss on his cheek from behind.

"It will do you no good to indulge too deeply in that." He whispered into his ear wisely, indicated to the bottle now sitting back on the table. "Retire for the night Enjolras. Dwell upon such things in darkness and privacy as all of us great thinkers must. Leave them to their revelry and pray that it is short lived."

"I wish him to be happy, Jehan. If they could find that in each other, I would not deny them that."

"It is a curious thing, for those who are the most alike tend to be the ones that quarrel most. Give it time for the novelty to wear off. He will come to his senses." Enjolras nodded, taking another long drink in spite of himself. This sip he tasted less, he had been prepared for it. The weight in his mind increased and the listlessness in his limbs spread. A pleasant warmth settled in his brain and he couldn't help but smile, in spite of the nightmare occurring all around him.

Jehan patted his shoulder, walking towards the door as to leave. In the threshold, Enjolras called out to him in a voice not his own.

"Give my greetings to dear Ferre, Jehan." Jean Prouvaire looked disapprovingly at him, but said nothing, simply nodding as he left. After a moment's analysis of his last action, he pushed the bottle away, disgusted. He hated alcohol, it made of clever men obnoxious drooling fools. Nobody had heard his comment to Jean Prouvaire, the rest of the tavern ten times as loud as he. But he had heard it. And so had Jehan.

A blush spread across his cheeks. He had humiliated himself. Always so strong, always so in control and yet, in a moment of weakness he had allowed alcohol his pride.

He glanced around the tavern for the last time, deciding that the poet's advice had been pertinent. Alone in the dark, that was where he could grieve. The tavern was beginning to empty presently, it would not be difficult to slip out with the rowdy patrons. In all the time Courfeyrac had not moved, seemingly happy in his perch atop Grantaire. He was telling some vulgar story, probably of his and Grantaire's exploits, Enjolras realized bitterly. His gaze automatically sought out Grantaire, startled when the other man's eyes were already on him.

Grantaire's eyes. Those deep oceans that could look completely within his soul without his permission. Even beneath the glaze of wine, his eyes were bright, fixated on Enjolras'. Within them, all Enjolras could see was pain. Pain and something more sinister. He had to leave. He couldn't take this anymore.

He shot out of his chair, jumping when it fell to the floor behind him noisily. A silence hung in the air as all eyes turned to look at him as he righted it. He scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed, and the patrons began to turn away. All but one. Grantaire remained fixed on him, until the moment he fled through the doors out into the darkness.


End file.
